Happy Holidays
by Sherlocked95
Summary: Follow up to 'Hot Chocolate and Marshmallows', exploring Merlin and Arthur's first meeting, as requested by thehelpfulfrog. Summary: Arthur is a complete grinch who rides a bicycle, owns a Prius and dislikes artists. Merlin is an eccentric and friendly artist who loves Christmas. It's kind of the perfect match, really.


**prompt fill for thehelpfulfrog's prompt: "You could expand on their first meeting, in the bookshop and everything. But maybe Merlin is an employee there? idc but it just sounded really adorable".**

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Arthur _hates_ winter.

He's a summer person. Winter is just awful; as soon as October and Halloween is over, the very _second_ that November rolls in, suddenly Christmas is _everywhere_; displays in shop windows, advertisements on the television, those incessant, God awful Christmas songs playing every bloody where. If he has to hear Slade shout "_It's Chriiiistmaaaas_" one more time upon entering a shop, he's going to tear his hair out, he's certain of it.

He hates walking into shops and seeing the decorations, hates seeing the Santa's Grotto setting up in the town square and all the elves running around with their sickening '_Merry Christmas_!', hates the pressure of seeing the adverts telling him to hurry now to buy amazing presents for friends and family. He loathes the office's annual Secret Santa, the typical swapping of silly Christmas cards, finds the ridiculous idea of traditions like finding trees, decorating as a family, or going for a walk on Christmas day, the whole deal leading up to just one day nothing more than irritating. The whole spreading _Christmas cheer_? Not his thing.

Yes, he's rather aware that he's a bit of a Grinch when it comes to Christmas, but honestly, how can _anyone_ look at those bloody Christmas decorations in the town square or listen to the tuneless carollers outside the small shopping precinct and enjoy it?

But what he really, truly does not understand is how anyone can state in all honesty that they enjoy the Winter _weather_. Anyone who likes the dreary skies, nights that close in ridiculously early, bitter cold and, worst of all, _snow_, are either lying twats or insane.

So on a Friday afternoon when he's cycling home as the sky rapidly darkens, gritting his teeth against the sharp, freezing cold wind as he goes downhill, he swears aloud when the first flake of snow lands on his hand. He's wearing gloves – he's all bundled up nicely against the gruelling weather (his father had been incredibly pleased to see him wearing the expensive pea coat he'd given Arthur for his birthday) – but he swears he can feel the sopping cold of the snow anyway.

On Fridays, he tends to leave the office earlier than most weekdays (he likes to stay late and is usually one of the last to leave). At any other time of the year, he'd normally join colleagues for a drink at The Rising Sun before heading home. He always loves that weekly pub time with friends. But at this time of year, he skips that and goes straight home in order to avoid travelling in the dark. After all, unlike his mates, he doesn't have the privilege of a nice, warm car to drive home in.

He misses his Prius. His shiny blue baby is parked in the garage for the Winter, reserved for long journeys only, thanks to Morgana.

His sister has a very strong personality, but she tends to change a lot all the time depending on the person she is with. One month she'll be a sophisticated and cultured aspiring art connoisseur, trekking the museums and galleries with the posh twat on her arm, the next she'll have dropped her dreams of the art world along with that posh twat in order to live a simple, grungy life with a man who loves domineering women (and hadn't _that _been a terrible time, seeing his sister dressed in tight leather dresses and terrifyingly sharp heels all the time), and then in a matter of weeks she'll be rock climbing in Spain with a sultry, athletic young tourist.

Now, however, she's shacked up in a small, simple flat with some university student (Arthur believes he's studying media and photography, though he hardly listens to his sister's besotted ramblings about her new men anymore, simply sips his wine and makes a noncommittal 'mmm' at the appropriate intervals). She's now the type to wear big, baggy sweaters, drink tea like its water, visit Stonehenge for big meets, take photographs of the city whenever the opportunity arises (read: several times a day) and indulge herself in the same hippy beliefs of her boyfriend. So of course she'd taken to telling Arthur that driving to and from work every day was damaging the planet and that he really should care more about conserving energy. He'd finally given in and bought an expensive, top of the range bicycle in order to travel around. He'd figured it would shut Morgana up for a little while and if he was cycling everywhere, he could cut down on his weekly gym visits, which meant less travelling in the terrible weather.

Unfortunately, now, however, he's still four miles from home and the weather is definitely taking a turn for the worse. More flakes start falling and he knows it's the type of snow to stick and settle. It won't let up for a while.

He stops and climbs off his bike, pushing it alongside him on the pavement as he searches for a place to stop and take refuge in until the snow stops. There's no chance he'll go into the shopping precinct, not with all the carollers and bright, overwhelming Christmas decorations.

He spots a small bookshop on the corner of the road, one he's seen many times on his way to and from work, but he's never looked inside before. The exterior has a kind of semi-antique, semi-mystical look that doesn't grab his interest. He likes mystery books, crime thrillers and the like, not the kind of old tomes this shop is promoting in the window.

Like all the other shops along this road, it's decorated for Christmas, the display overrun with cheesy decorations. It's all too much and far too mismatched so it hurts his eyes, but as the snow starts falling harder, he makes a snap decision and chains his bike to the lamppost outside before ducking into the shop.

The warmth that hits him as soon as he opens the door is a sweet relief. A small bell above the door rings, announcing his presence; he quickly closes the door behind him against the cold and stamps his feet on the mat, kicking off the small amount of snow that has already stuck to his shoes.

The interior of the shop is small and clustered, crowded bookshelves stuffed close together in a sort of maze so he can't see the counter or anything beyond the shelves. It smells a little musty, like all the books are old. Someone has put up Christmas lights around the shelves and there's a snowman ornament to Arthur's right with a hand painted sign saying something in a language he doesn't understand but looks vaguely Celtic.

Christmas music is playing but its quiet enough that he can ignore it as he peels off his gloves and scarf, stuffing them in the pockets of his coat. He eyes the sign again, wondering what it says. It's definitely the same language that's on the sign above the shop outside and it looks familiar, but he studied French, German and Classical Latin at school, not the Celtics, so he can't translate it.

"It says 'Happy Holidays," a voice says, smooth and masculine, from somewhere beyond the bookshelves. "I painted the sign myself."

Arthur doesn't really care but he doesn't voice this thought, simply sniffs and shoots an irritated look up at the speaker above the shelves to his left. It's a Christmas tune he doesn't know the name of but recognises from hearing it plenty of times before. It sets his teeth on edge.

When he searches for the source of that voice, he finally sees a mop of dark hair, bewildered blue eyes, large ears and a slightly goofy smile.

_Oh_.

Well, the young man is rather attractive, Arthur has to admit. He's younger than him, possibly mid twenties, and skinny with features that aren't typically attractive yet are handsome, sharp cheekbones and a friendly smile. He's wearing slim jeans tucked into boots, a blue shirt and a red scarf, a combination that is a little eccentric but looks good.

"It's Irish," he continues. "Gaius, he's the one who owns this place, but he doesn't tend to work in the Winter months – he's old, you see, and struggles to get around, so the cold weather only makes that worse. Anyway, he prefers to speak his own language and insists I make the signs that way. Most of the books here are in a Celtic language, actually."

Arthur stares at him, this strange man who rambles on to a complete stranger like he's a familiar friend, a little stunned. He moves closer and there's a sort of happy energy to him, the kind of look of a man who's always on the move and always cheerful. Arthur sees him as the type to live in a barely furnished flat, drinking tea, with no television and listening to music on an old record player.

Later, when Arthur visits his flat for the first time, he'll find that it's actually furnished _far _too much, enough that the place is crowded with books and art canvases and random odds and ends, and while he _does _drink tea, he also doeshave a television (and a stereo, a games console and a DVD player), though he sheepishly admits later that he has an old record player with a collection of favourite records he keeps in his bedroom.

"I'm Merlin," he introduces himself.

"Right," Arthur says shortly. He doesn't mean to be rude, but he's cold and he's still a little taken by that bright smile. "Arthur."

"Lovely to meet you," Merlin offers, not looking too bothered about Arthur's impoliteness. "How can I help?"

"You work here?" Arthur's not surprised.

"Well," Merlin rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. "Not officially. I used to volunteer here on a regular basis but I don't have the time anymore, unfortunately. But I like to help Gaius out during the Winter."

"You volunteered?" Arthur repeats. "You didn't get paid?"

Merlin blinks, surprised. "Um, no. Why?"

Of course this bloke is the type to volunteer at some musty old bookshop rather than get paid for his work.

"Do you adopt abandoned kittens from the shelter too?" he knows his tone is a little sneering and he wonders why he can't seem to socialise like a normal person when he's around attractive people.

"No," Merlin's smile dims slightly. "I'm allergic to cats."

Arthur can't help but let loose a surprised bark of laughter then and Merlin joins in with a quiet, bright chuckle of his own and oh, _oh_, Arthur's heart flips at the sound. This man is rather lovely.

"So, can I help you?" Merlin encourages after a moment.

"I...I don't think I'd be able to read any of these books," Arthur admits, gesturing to the array of books with titles he can't understand. "I'm a Classical Latin man, myself."

If Merlin is put off by the slight bragging, he doesn't show it. "You didn't realise most of the books here are Celtic?" his nose scrunches slightly in confusion – probably because the sign outside is a big enough clue – and it's the most adorable thing Arthur has ever seen.

"Well, if I'm honest, I really just wanted to get out of the snow. I can't stand the stuff."

"Oh," Merlin looks a little surprised but he offers a cheerful grin. "I love snow."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "You're a fan of Christmas, aren't you?"

Merlin looks round at the abundance of festive decorations, a fond look in his eyes. "I love Christmas. The weather, the build up, the atmosphere, it's just really lovely."

"Of course," Arthur mutters, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Of course you love bloody Christmas."

Admittedly, he is being a bit of a twat, but he still feels indignant when Merlin's face falls and he grumbles "prat" under his breath as he moves away from Arthur. He follows, reluctant to leave the warmth of the shop and brave the snow.

Behind the maze of shelves is a rickety staircase leading up to goodness knows where, a counter and more clusters of Christmas decorations, including a lavish Christmas tree. Arthur very carefully does not pull a face at them.

"You said you don't have the time to volunteer anymore," Arthur remarks, perusing the artwork behind the counter. "Why is that?"

He's not usually a fan of small talk but this man has an allure he hasn't encountered before; the bright smile and warm blue eyes draw him in and the easy friendliness he shows is rare to find these days. He can't help but want to speak with him, to learn more about the eccentric young man in front of him. He wants to _know _him, wants to keep this warm, content feeling in his heart that Merlin brings, and as much as that startles him, he can't help but enjoy it too.

"My career took off," Merlin smiles slightly, giving a small shake of his head to show just how bewildered he is of this fact. "Surprisingly."

"I see," Arthur eyes him, trying to work it out what he does for a living. "What career is that?"

He has Merlin pegged as a writer, a poet or a photographer. Something creative and artsy, definitely. He has that kind of _look_.

"I'm an artist," Merlin answers.

That makes sense. "Of course," Arthur says, because Merlin definitely looks like an artist, but to his horror his tone is almost mocking. That might be because he's always seen most artists as overhyped and self indulgent. He feels a little foolish for that now, looking at the bright man in front of him.

Merlin's eyes narrow and, yes, Arthur has definitely offended him with that comment. He fumbles slightly, cheeks warming as he tries to come up with an appropriate apology.

"Look," Merlin says before he can make amends. He's still polite but his friendly manner is a little subdued now. "I'm going to make some tea. Would you like some?"

"Coffee would be lovely, thanks," Arthur answers gratefully. Hopefully it'll warm him up some more. "Do you always offer hot drinks to the customers?"

Merlin ducks his head, a small, flirtatious smile gracing his lips as he answers, "Only the good looking ones."

Arthur's heart flutters again and he can't help but grin, pleased. "I see. And if the customer wants to take you on a date?"

"Well, that depends. Will they be a prat then, too?"

"I'm sure they'll do their very best _not _to be considering they're lucky enough to be on a date with a very attractive artist."

Merlin busies himself with pouring hot water into cups from the kettle behind the counter, still smiling. "Well, then, we'll have to see." A phone rings from the another room. "Oh, hold on. I'll be right back."

He passes Arthur a polystyrene cup of coffee as he passes, ducking into the back room to answer the phone. Arthur sips the coffee, blanching at the lack of sugar, as he continues to study the art on the wall. He imagines Merlin learning how he likes his coffee and him learning how Merlin likes his tea and, yes, he definitely wants it. He wants cuddles on the sofa and sharing warmth in bed. He's quite smitten with Merlin, enough that he doesn't care if it's too quick. Sometimes life is that way, after all.

His gaze lands on the large painting in the middle. It's good, _really_ good; subtle but beautifully done. The thatched cottage takes up most of it, but there's a stream in the background and a gorgeous garden. When he peers closer, he can see the hint of a dark haired woman in one of the windows. It's not a painting he thinks he'd normally enjoy but he really likes it. He squints to try and make out the signature scrawled in the bottom corner. He just about makes out the _Merlin_ and the surname – _Emrys? Emerson? Emeryson_? – and raises his eyebrows. It's unlikely that there'd be some other _Merlin_ who is an artist and would have a painting on display in this bookshop, but he'd had the idea that Merlin is the type to do the modern, abstract type of art that Arthur hates.

Later, he discovers that Merlin does all sorts; modern, abstract, landscapes, watercolours, but the work that gets picked up on most and what he really loves to do is portraits. He has a knack of capturing the light in someone's eyes and the tease of a smile on their lips. Arthur falls in love with Merlin's work just as he falls in love with the man himself.

He's a little surprised that Merlin mentioned he's an artist but didn't point out the work he had up on the wall, but then, it does suit him; eccentric but quiet and unassuming.

Merlin's a young artist who likes to volunteer, help out old bookkeepers, paints beautiful art and loves Christmas. He's sort of the exact opposite of Arthur and certainly not the type of man Arthur would normally go for.

Arthur's quite taken with him, really.

So when Merlin returns, Arthur blurts out, "Can I have your number?"

Merlin just smiles, eyes sparkling as he grabs a pen from behind the counter and starts scribbling numbers on Arthur's forearm. "Maybe we can set up that date. So long as you're not a prat."

"I'll try not to be," Arthur grins back.

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**it was very strange to write Arthur like this, since everything he hates, I love. I adore Christmas and I'm a bit of a romantic. Tea, cuddles and winter is my idea of perfection.**

**I have a tumblr: lokisinmydivision**

**Feel free to send me a prompt you'd like to see written or just come and say hello :)**


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